Members of my family continue to ask if I’m evacuating, but I will remind you all once more: I never evacuate during any hurricane. Not ever. My role in this has been the same for years, a responsibility bound to rituals older than memory itself. You know my ways, and yet you still ask? Allow me to recount my routine one last time, so that there may be no confusion.
At precisely 4:38 a.m. on the morning of the storm, I awaken. This hour is sacred and its true significance is known only to me and the creatures that share this land. Barefoot, I retrieve the silver spoon kept by the rear door and wander into the backyard, where the earth is cool and damp beneath my feet. It is here, in the quiet stillness, that the soil calls to me—an unseen force beneath the ground reaches up and will commence to delicately tickle my toes and reveal to me the perfect spot. I kneel and consume seven spoonfuls of soil, a ritual as ancient as the storms themselves. The timing is essential; I must do this before the weasels on my property begin to menstruate at sunrise. These weather patterns effect their regular cycles and if I am late to wake, their blood will seep into the earth, whereby chancing that I may consume it mistakenly. Their clotted drippings corrupt the soil's purity. The taste is secondary to the texture—there is nothing more unpleasant than the sensation of a weasel menses clot on the tongue. I do what I can to avoid it.
Once this task is complete, I strip naked and stand bare before my bedroom mirror, regarding myself as the sun begins to rise. After I have gazed upon myself I will gaze upon the crystal that will imbue the rest of my rituals with power this day. I have noted of late, and with melancholia, that the crystal’s light appears to be growing ever dimmer with the winds of each passing hurricane. Before I place this stone, an ancient source of energy that gives power to my magic, where it must be placed, I do spend some time wondering when the light will go out from this enchanted geode and its glow and the power that passes through me as its conduit, will cease forever. Hopefully, that day will not be this day.
After this quiet reflection, I call my psychic, who waits for my call at this time before every storm. I rely on her for my next task for it is she who is tethered to the voices of the stars. I understand how early this is for a call, as does she, which is the reason I pay her handsomely for taking it. What happens next depends on her interpretation. Should the stars find displeasure with me, they will task me to ascend the great Bruja Tree at the northern edge of my land. There, upon the highest branch, I shall carve another obscene depiction of a cock and balls—an offering to forces unseen. If they take pleasure with me then, I must cover myself in orange marmalade and sit, naked, among the bees who whisper of floral politics and discuss the actions of the Rosebud Fellowship in the milkweed patch for no less than half an hour.
Both rituals require that I remain unclothed, but the marmalade task demands more than simple nudity—my thirteen matador rings, which were won during my bullfighting years in Spain, are adornments disliked by the bees that visit the milkweed so they must be removed in addition to my clothing. This irks me, as I invariably misplace one of the rings for days on end. Eventually, I find it, but the moment of loss always stings.
The bees, despite their ceaseless buzzing, concern themselves with matters far beyond their station. I dislike them intensely for they spent their mornings debating pollen taxes and floral alliances with an intensity that baffles the mind. I am of the opinion that such conversations really should be had by those directly impacted by the Rosebud Fellowship, whose power of governance extends only to other flowers. Being that these bees are bees, I find their interest in these topics distasteful. Such discussions accomplish nothing because those policies only impact the flowers and should mean nothing whatsoever to those creatures which do not identify as flowers. I would much rather they share their opinions of the alliances of the various insect monarchies, for such a topic would actually impact them meaningfully. I have a severe distaste for people and creatures who waste their time concerning themselves with business not their own, yet, I cannot reprimand them. To do so would disrupt the delicate balance I strive to maintain. Nature must be left undisturbed, even in its most trivial squabbles.
More often than not, the stars continue to prove their distaste for me and I am sent to climb the Bruja Tree. I make my best effort to appear as though this is a task which I have no taste for in the event that they continue to watch my movements in the hours after the sun has breached the horizon and it is thought that they have gone to bed. I distrust this notion, so I make a point to complain loudly to no one as I set about this task in the event that their gaze and their hearing along with it might be drawn to me still, but these acts of mine ar naught but a farce for I do find climbing the Bruja Tree–any tree actually–to be quite pleasurable.
I climb the branches of the Bruja Tree with a bowie knife between my teeth, the blade biting cold against my lips. The tree's branches are spaced just right, making the ascent an easy one—and I make a point of complaining in mumbles with the knife clenched between my teeth as I climb. I mutter that this task is far too easy to be given to a tree climber of mine own tree climbing calibur, and I loudly wish in mushmouthed words that only the stars might overhear and understand to be tasked with a harder tree to climb. Again, this is a ruse for there is no other Bruja Tree to carve dicks upon that exists anywhere within the bounds of my land. Upon reaching the top, I etch yet another crude drawing of a cock into the wood, thinking there should be more of these carvings given how many storms pass through. The tally of obscenities is far fewer than I would like. By the time I descend, my body is marked with shallow scratches, reminders of the thorny tree that has borne witness to my ritual. I’m often surprised that there aren’t more wounds, considering I make the climb entirely naked.
Four hours before the storm’s arrival, I don my pinstripe suit and polish my silver rain boots, preparing for the next task. This is when I assume the mantle of Nimbus Envoy. For 47 minutes, I must perform an interpretive dance upon my front lawn, asserting dominance over the wind. The boots must gleam, and the suit must be immaculate, or my efforts will be in vain. The clouds must respect me, or else they will align with the wind, strengthening its fury. Should they choose the wind over me, insult will be added to injury for I will be summoned by the head of the Druid Council at daybreak on the morrow to settle disputes between the frogs, whose conflicts aroused during the storm will be blamed on my failure.
I find this punishment unjust, for no one should be held accountable for the opinions of clouds resulting from a failed dance. I already do more than enough to protect the city, the county, and the state from the storm’s wrath. Frog disputes are beneath me. Yet the Druids are relentless in their expectations and naked pictures of myself, obtained by the council, will be posted online if I should choose not to acquiesce to their demands. Yes, I’m sure that you are all aware that a number of my nudes are already available to be found online, but those are those photographs in which I was cast only in the best lighting, and I should hope to keep it thus. The lighting in the photographs that the Druids have obtained is quite offensive. They’ve managed to capture me at angles that make my stomach look bloated and the optical illusion created by this lighting causes the appearance of my massive organ to be quite small indeed. Noncompliance with the Druid Council is not worth the trouble and I find that they choose to include their threats for noncompliance in the same envelope as the summons itself to be quite rude. Gentlemen would send such correspondences separately, but the Druids are no gentlemen as such that I’ve ever known.
Once the dance concludes, I move to The Lamentation. At this time, I will make myself comfortable on the back patio’s chaise lounge with a glass of sparkling lemonade. There, I shall whistle the theme to The Golden Girls, calling the seagulls to my side. They flock in droves, drawn by the song’s upbeat melody. Once their numbers are substantial enough to be considered an audience, I can sing them any tale I wish, but I know they prefer stories of love and loss. It is crucial at this time for me to make them weep, for their tears are the only thing that can protect the many homes in my state from the storm’s gusts. Fortunately, seagulls are sympathetic creatures. If I shed tears first, they will surely follow so I only sing songs that cause me to cry into my glass of lemonade before I finish drinking it down. This is not a requirement of the task, but I do quite enjoy the taste of tears that are mine own.
Ten minutes before the storm makes landfall, I will find the first moment of peace I’ve had all day, though it lasts only 1 minute and 52 seconds (yes, I timed it last month during the previous storm, in a vain attempt to understand why this moment of rest feels so hollow). Before I can settle into it, the earth will begin to tremble, as though something ancient and unholy is stirring in the secret tunnels beneath the surface. From the ground, a deep and hidden fissure will open somewhere nearby, and The Carriage of Obsidian will crawl forth, drawn by its carriageman and his pair of unholy beasts of burden. The shadows of swaying branches in the nearby woods will begin to lurch hither and yon with ever more violence as the power of the wind begins to rise, and somewhere among those shadows my chauffeur will slowly ascend from the depths in secret. This eerie vehicle, its very presence a harbinger of the day’s final ritual, comes to carry me to the last of my duties. It will bring me to the place where I will safely ride out the duration of the storm.
The dark rites I have performed since dawn have summoned this ancient conveyance hence and while it's arrival is expected, the sight of the wretched thing as it emerges from the treeline is a sight most unwelcome for I know that I must endure what will happen in the ride to come. There is an unknown power trapped deep within the wood that is unlike any dark thing I have encountered in my lifetime and in order to be delivered to the location for which I am bound, I must ride inside the carriage with this thing that cannot be seen and endure it as it touches me with invisible hands. As you ride, this other presence that rides inside of the carriage with you will move it's lecherous fingertips delicately along your skin the same way a lover’s hand might caress gently various places of your body–along your forearm, the back of your neck, or down your spine–but where a lover's hand will fill your soul with comfort, love or even lust, the thing the lurks unseen and touches you inside of the carriage house is very much unlike any lover. The only feelings it is capable of passing to you will be dark, endless sadness and haunting dread. While I do enjoy eating soil, climbing trees and making seagulls weep, I dread this moment of the ritual. I dread that I must endure this ride in order to be rewarded for my efforts. The Norwegian Spruce that this thing was made from was chosen specifically because of the great magic moving within the wood, beneath the surface. I don't know who it was who chose to use the wood from this tree but I do hope, that the soul of whoever he was found the torture he has surely earned in the lowest depths of hell for making this choice. I hope that it continues to be tormented presently.
Mortimer Fenwick, the carriageman, awoke more and more with each of my ritual acts, brought to life through my silent command. His eyes fluttered open with the first spoonful of soil, and with each step I took throughout the day, his strength slowly returned. This afternoon, he began readying the undead destriers, feeding them the thoughts and prayers sent in droves by those who know no better. These empty gestures, so often dismissed, serve as sustenance for our beasts. They are the very hay upon which the unholy steeds feast, fueling their grim purpose. With each thought, each prayer, the swirling black mist that rises from their hooves grows thicker, more ominous and bestows upon the horses the wicked power and strength they will need to pull the heavy carriage of cursed black wood up from beneath the earth.
The Carriage of Obsidian has borne the Veiled Order of the Gloaming Tempest to the reward at the final ceremonial grounds for centuries. The thing inside was described to me by the carriage’s previous rider and to him the rider before that. I, the Bane of the Squall, am but one of many who have come before, tasked with keeping the storms at bay. This Order, long thought to be mere legend, is indeed very real, and I am its last remaining servant. The title of High Tempestkeeper is mine, though there are none left to share this burden or inherit it from me when I am too weak to continue on.
Through my continued practice of the forgotten rites of which I have just described, I not only awaken the dead man who is the driver of the wretched vehicle but my acts have summoned the spirits of the ancient race of the long dead titans as well. It is they who will continue to fight against this storm as I take my leave to cower beneath the ground and away from the battle that is to come between the ancient titans and the very wind and rain itself. These beings who roamed the peninsula long before the reptiles of the Triassic age began their slow rise from the primordial ooze are the only champions willing to take on this challenge for the benefit of humanity’s continued survival. My Order, the Shrouded Whisperers of the Squall, have called upon these titans for as long as memory recounts. Throughout history we have been the only keepers of the secret knowledge required to summon them into battle on our behalf in defense of these tempests–our magic is the only wall, a final barrier between civilization and catastrophe. But the time is coming when our power will fail. The crystal, once vibrant with energy, is dying, and the strength of its once mighty fount of energy is waning. This geode, placed inside of my rectum before making my phone call this morning, is losing its charge. I could feel it growing colder inside me throughout the day and as I looked upon it before slathering it with vaseline and shoving it into my anus, I noticed with alarm that the light within had begun to flicker and it now glows much more dimly than I've ever known for it to glow. It is losing the magic within and soon the power it contains will die. The magic is nearly spent and without it, our rituals are nothing but useless gestures. A powerless pantomime wherein all hope is lost.
As Mortimer’s carriage approaches, I rise to meet him. The crystal within me churns, a dull discomfort growing as the energy fades more quickly. I can feel it growing weaker inside of me. The horses slow to a stop, and Mr. Fenwick smiles that grim, hollow smile of his—his once-human features now worn thin and tattered by the passage of time. His face, a ruin of ragged flesh, is torn in places, fluttering like old cloth in the wind, revealing the bone beneath. Once my mentor, he is now but a mute shadow, a relic of what was. He bears the weight of this endless task, his silent servitude a reminder of my own eventual fate. One day, I will take his place…but I fear that without another of our ancient line to awaken me I will not arouse on the morning of the storm to ready the horses. I will not be given the energy to animate my arms and legs to feed them the thoughts and prayers. Instead, I shall lie motionless beneath the earth, forgotten and alert but unmoving–my spirit trapped inside of the shell of that who I once was, rotting away for eternity–or until Florida itself is reclaimed by the sea and I become a feast for the crabs in the depths of the Gulf…
…unless…
I step into the carriage and lower myself upon the bench. A shudder courses through me as I feel the crystal's coldness within, a chilling reminder that my own days as one of humanity's last protectors are numbered as well. This may well be my final ride, the last journey to complete my final task. Mortimer’s undead destriers know the path by heart, their course unchanged across centuries. I know that I am meant to take his place one day. Were I not the last of my kind, I would lead these beasts along the same path, repeating this endless cycle until all memory of our sacred Order has dissolved into the mists of time…but without the next in line to awaken me–
The Crystalline Herald should have revealed himself by now. The prophecies within the Codex of the Dark Horizon are very clear. They speak of his arrival, yet no sign has come. I fear that the stories—long passed down through the ages—may be nothing more than myth. But the pages do tell of another. He who shall be the one to save my dying order, he who is The Crystalline Herald. The one whose fate is entwined with mine, and with the dying magic of the crystal.
It is said that as the crystal's light dims, it will call out to him, guiding him to the last High Tempestkeeper. But no Tempestkeeper remains, save for me. I am the last! Where is the Herald? I am to take him into my charge, to teach him the ancient ways, and to pass the crystal on to him as its last flicker fades. The prophecy proclaims that in the hour when all hope is lost, when the storm’s fury seems unstoppable, he alone can restore the magic. He must take the crystal from me—at my behest—and place it inside of his own butt, before its final light is extinguished. Of course, I’ll clean it first... but in that moment, the crystal will be reawakened and its dying light shall be rekindled. He is the one destined to restore its power, to lead our Order from the darkness and into a new era.
The crystal is on the verge of death now! Once it thrummed with constant power, vibrating with life, but today it lies still. It is completely unresponsive. The storms come and go, but the crystal no longer stirs. Its light—what little remains—will not linger much longer.
Where are you, Crystalline Herald? The time for your arrival is past! The storm is upon us, the crystal is fading, and still, you remain hidden? Reveal yourself to me! I beg thee! The moment of salvation draws near, but you have yet to come forth! The time to do this is nigh!
WHERE ARE YOU CRYSTALLINE HERALD?
I fear all hope may be lost.
For most of the ride, the thing that I know is somewhere in this carriage with me chooses not to make itself known. Perhaps this is because it desires to fill the rider with despair and that is a feeling of which I am already very full. As the carriage nears its destination, the steady drizzle thickens into a relentless torrent and The Vanishing Sepulcher will materialize soon after at the marsh’s edge—a lonely monument, unseen by mortal eyes, standing at the threshold between worlds. This ancient tomb, built for Draven Crustleford, the Order’s original head pastry chef, has been the final destination on the night of an impending storm for as long as I can remember. Here, in the shadow of the sepulcher, I will claim my only reward for a lifetime of service—the taste of Draven’s divine crumb cake, a confection baked daily in death, baked just as he baked it during life.
Just as I think, with glad relief, that the carriage spirit has chosen to let me take my ride in peace this time as I open the door to depart from the vehicle I can feel the hands of something roughly grip my groin and squeeze. It lets go just as suddenly as it clutched me and I think it must have only made the choice to do this at this time to confirm its continued endless presence. A reminder that it still lurks within, that sends me to move quickly away from the thing without bothering to close the door.
All the steps of my day lead me to this moment. From the first spoonful of soil before dawn, gaining the adoration of the clouds with the subtle, lithe movements of my body, to the final tear shed by the final crying gull, every act has brought me closer to this reward. There inside the sepulcher, I will shelter from the storm and indulge in the delicate moistness of the divine confection that makes all my efforts worthwhile.
So no, I’m not evacuating. I never will. This is my duty, my calling. It is my birthright and responsibility to face these storms head on. Even were I to be given a hypothetical life where the responsibilities I shoulder belonged to another, I would choose to stay for the privilege and honor of enjoying such an unparalleled pastry such as the one on offer. The reward far outweighs the risk, and though I am losing hope, I also must remain that I might welcome the arrival of The One. The man who is destined to save everything I know and love. I await you, Crystalline Herald, wherever you may be. I await you in the sincere hope that the legends we have passed down throughout the ages are not lies.
I must believe…
…but for tonight my task is done and I am feeling particularly bold, so I might even have two slices of that fucking cake tonight, for I feel for all that I have done, I am deserving of more than just the one.